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Oh, Mary, this London's a wonderful sight |
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The people here are working by day and by night |
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They don't sow potatoes, nor barley, nor wheat |
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But there's gangs of them diggin' for gold in the street |
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At least, when I asked them, that's what I was told |
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So I just took a hand at this diggin' for gold |
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But for all that I've found there I might as well be |
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In the place where the dark Mournes sweep down to the sea |
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There's beautiful girls here, oh never you mind |
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Beautiful shapes nature never designed |
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Lovely complexions of roses and cream |
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But let me remark with regard to the same |
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That if at those roses you venture to sip |
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Colors might all come away on your lips |
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So I'll wait for the wild rose that's waitin for me |
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In the place where the dark Mournes sweep down to the sea |
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You remember young Davey McClaren of course |
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Well sure now he's round here with the rest of the force |
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I saw him one day as I was crossin the strand |
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And he stopped the whole street with a wave of his hand |
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And as we stood talkin of days that are gone |
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The whole town of London stood there to look on |
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But for all his great powers he's wishful like me |
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To be back where the dark Mournes sweep down to the sea |
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But for all his great powers he's wishful like me |
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To be back where the dark Mournes sweep down to the sea |
